Commander Fox X Singer/PA Reader Pt. 2

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me?? drawing angsty clone wars art?? in this economy?? more likely than you’d think.

(sorta-redraw of this thing from a year ago)

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.7

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The Chancellor’s office was colder than it looked. Gilded in gold trim, with its long shadows and false warmth, it resembled a sunlit cage. The senator stood before the central desk, flanked by two members of the Coruscant Guard—Commander Fox at her right, another clone at her back.

Fox hadn’t spoken to her since the leak.

He hadn’t even looked at her unless it was protocol.

The Chancellor, however, looked very much at her. With studied eyes and fingers steepled beneath his chin, he regarded her as though calculating the weight of a weapon he wasn’t quite sure how to use yet.

“The leaks,” he began slowly, “have caused quite the stir.”

“I’m aware,” she said, tone even. “I’ve been called a few new things today.”

“The term war criminal certainly has… gravity.”

She didn’t flinch. “So does survivor.”

Palpatine’s smile was almost affectionate. Almost.

“I don’t often indulge sentiment,” he said, “but I must admit, I’ve always admired survivors. Those who understand that mercy is a luxury afforded only after the enemy is dead. It is… unfortunate the galaxy doesn’t share my appreciation.”

She didn’t trust the glint in his eye. But she nodded anyway.

“Let’s speak plainly, shall we?” he said, leaning forward. “You are now the most scandalous figure in the Senate. Some believe that makes you dangerous. Others think it makes you untouchable. Personally, I think it makes you useful—in the right context.”

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t like being cornered.

“Useful for what, exactly?”

Palpatine smiled. “For influence. Fear, my dear Senator, is a currency. You’ve just been handed a vault.”

Behind her, Fox shifted ever so slightly. No words, but his presence pulled taut like a tripwire.

She glanced at him—his stance rigid, eyes hidden behind the dark visor. But he was watching. Listening. She could feel the judgment simmering beneath the armor.

“You didn’t bring me here for punishment,” she said slowly. “You brought me here to see if I could still be an asset.”

Palpatine gave a light, rasping chuckle. “Punishment is such a crude concept. No—what I want is assurance.”

“Of what?”

“That you won’t break. That you won’t run. That you can hold your seat without crumbling under the weight of your history.”

“I’ve held worse,” she said.

“And if the press or your colleagues push harder?”

She stepped forward, spine straight, voice low.

“Then I remind them that the only reason they’re standing in that chamber and not buried in an unmarked field is because people like me did what they couldn’t stomach.”

Fox’s head turned slightly—just slightly.

Palpatine smiled wider. “Good. Very good.”

He turned to Fox next. “Marshal Commander, I trust you’ve prepared contingency security protocols?”

“Yes, sir,” Fox answered, voice sharp as durasteel. “Her safety is covered from every angle.”

“Excellent. Then I believe we’re done.”

As she turned to leave, Fox fell into step behind her. Not beside her—behind. Like she was no longer something to walk beside, but something to guard from a distance.

The silence between them lasted until the lift doors sealed them inside.

She finally spoke.

“Do you believe it?” she asked, eyes forward.

There was a long pause.

“I believe you’re dangerous,” Fox said flatly. “But I always did.”

Her breath caught.

“And I believe,” he added quietly, “you’re the only senator in that building I’d trust to walk through hell and come out standing.”

She turned her head toward him, heart twisting in place.

His gaze didn’t meet hers. But his hand briefly, subtly, shifted just an inch closer—close enough to brush against hers before pulling away again.

⸻

The Grand Convocation Chamber thrummed with tension. Senators filled the tiers like birds on a wire, whispering, watching, waiting. The galactic newsfeeds were still hot with headlines. The holo-screens didn’t let her forget:

“War Criminal in the Senate?”

“Senator’s Bloodied Past Revealed in Classified Data Dump”

“Hero or Butcher? Galactic Public Reacts to Senator’s Dark War Record.”

And she stood in the eye of the storm, on the central speaking platform—small beneath the towering dome, but with every eye in the room on her.

Her hands didn’t shake. Not this time.

“Senators,” she began, voice calm, every syllable measured. “I will speak today not to deny what you’ve read, nor to ask for your forgiveness. I will speak to remind you what war does to people, to nations, to souls.”

The chamber quieted, the usual interjections or scoffs absent for once.

“When my planet was at war, we weren’t fighting over trade routes or petty disputes. We were fighting because our people had nothing left to eat. Because homes were burning. Because leaders had abandoned us. And because in the ashes of desperation, monsters rose wearing familiar flags.”

Her gaze rose to the tiers. She didn’t read from a datapad. Her words came from memory—etched into her spine like every scar she didn’t show.

“We did what we had to do. I did what I had to do.”

There were murmurs from a few senators—others still whispered behind data tablets.

She pressed forward.

“I’ve read the headlines. I know what they’re calling me now. War criminal. Executioner. Deceiver. I’m not here to rewrite history to make myself more palatable. I’m here to explain why.”

A flicker of movement in the Guard section. Fox stood rigid. Thorn just beside him, jaw locked, eyes shadowed. Hound and Stone were in the perimeter, unreadable. Vos, of course, had chosen a front-row seat among the Jedi delegation, grinning faintly.

“Have any of you ever been on the ground in a war zone?” she asked. “Not from a ship, not through a report, but in the mud, where every face you see might be the last one you ever do?”

Silence.

“I’ve made decisions that I’ll carry for the rest of my life. I’ve given orders I wish I never had to. But those decisions saved my people. My world stands united today because I chose resolve over ruin. I chose to wear the weight of history instead of letting it crush the next generation.”

She turned slightly.

“There was a time even my own people branded me a war criminal. They painted my name across memorials as if I was a villain. And I accepted that pain, because in time… they saw what I had done. They saw peace take root.”

She breathed deeply. Her voice softened, but carried more strength in that hush than in any shout.

“Now I fight for them in a different war. Not with a rifle. Not with deception. But with my voice. In these chambers. I will not run from my past. I will not be ashamed of the blood I spilt to protect my home.”

One senator stood—Bail Organa, his expression grim but respectful.

“She has the floor,” he said, shooting down an attempted interruption from Orn Free Taa.

Mon Mothma sat in contemplative stillness. Padmé’s eyes shone with restrained emotion. Others watched with wary curiosity, some with disdain.

At the Chancellor’s podium, Palpatine remained motionless. He looked pleased—like someone watching a rare animal prove its worth in the wild.

“I came to this Senate to make sure no one else has to make the decisions I did,” the senator finished. “So the next child born on my world doesn’t grow up hearing bombs in the distance. So they never have to wear my scars. That’s what I stand for now. And I won’t apologize for surviving.”

A beat of silence.

Then, scattered applause. Hesitant. Then stronger. Not unanimous—but it didn’t need to be. It was enough.

In the gallery, Thorn exhaled through his nose, shoulders sinking like a tension cord had snapped loose. Fox remained motionless, helmet still tucked under one arm—but his eyes tracked her every movement, his jaw clenched tight.

Later, as the senators filed out, murmuring amongst themselves, Palpatine spoke to Mas Amedda in a hushed aside, lips curling faintly.

“She’s more useful than I thought.”

Vos caught Thorn’s shoulder in the corridor and whispered, “Your war criminal’s got a spine of durasteel. I’d be careful with that.”

Thorn didn’t answer.

Fox lingered behind as she left the chamber. Just close enough for her to feel it.

The storm wasn’t over. But she’d stood in it without flinching.

And some storms change the shape of entire worlds.

⸻

The briefing room tucked behind the Coruscant Guard’s barracks was dimly lit, blue holoscreens casting flickers over the faces of the commanders seated around the central table. The atmosphere was thick—less with the weight of military protocol and more with something unsaid.

Commander Stone was the first to break the silence, arms crossed over his chest. “So… it’s true then. She did all that. And now it’s on every damn channel.”

“She did what she had to do,” Thorn said flatly, from where he leaned back in his seat. “None of us were there.”

Fox didn’t look at him. He was focused on the holo-feed looping headlines and excerpts from the senator’s public speech. His jaw worked, teeth grinding behind tight lips.

“She’s not hiding it,” Hound added, Grizzer resting his massive head in the man’s lap. “That counts for something.”

“Counts for more than most around here,” Thire muttered.

Stone raised an eyebrow. “You lot thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking she’s more of a soldier than half the senators we’ve ever had to babysit,” Hound said, scratching behind Grizzer’s ears, “then yeah.”

Thorn exhaled, sharp. “I already knew there was something in her. You don’t carry yourself like that unless you’ve seen real battle. Felt real loss.”

Fox finally spoke. “What else do we know?”

The question was hard, calculated, detached—but Thorn’s gaze snapped to him anyway. “About her? Or about your jealousy?”

The room tensed. Even Grizzer lifted his head.

Fox turned to Thorn at last, expression unreadable. “Careful, Commander.”

“You’re not my General,” Thorn said coolly, but the bite was real.

“But I am your superior.”

Stone cleared his throat loudly, trying to cut through the heat. “We all saw how she handled the Senate. That was command presence. Controlled the room like a field op. And she didn’t flinch when they threw her to the wolves.”

Fox leaned over the holotable, voice low. “She’s not just some politician anymore. The whole damn galaxy sees it. That makes her a target in more ways than one.”

“She always was,” Thorn said.

Another stare between the two men. Hound’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, and he muttered under his breath to Grizzer, “We’re going to need a bigger distraction than you, buddy.”

Thire shook his head. “Point is, the leak backfired. She came out stronger. People are backing her now. Some senators are scared. Some want her silenced.”

Fox folded his arms. “So we protect her.”

“You mean you protect her?” Thorn asked, tone lighter but laced with that edge only soldiers could hear.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stood. “Alright. This is heading somewhere messy. Let’s not forget, we’re not in the field. We’re on Coruscant. We do our jobs. We don’t let personal feelings get in the way.”

But even as he said it, no one met each other’s eyes.

Because personal feelings had already breached the perimeter.

And everyone knew it.

⸻

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Obi-Wan said, cradling a mug of something strong enough to pass for caf, though it smelled more like fermented spice.

Vos smirked, lounging back on the armrest of a couch in Kenobi’s Coruscant quarters, one boot kicked up on the low table between them. “Oh, come on. It’s not every day I get to see two commanders practically lose their minds over a senator.”

Obi-Wan arched a brow. “They’re not losing their minds. They’re… protective.”

“Protective?” Vos laughed. “You didn’t see Fox after the hearing. Man looked like someone had kicked his speeder and insulted his genetics in the same breath.”

Kenobi sipped from his mug. “I saw the footage. She handled it well.”

Vos’s grin softened, just a bit. “Yeah. She did. Same way she handled that siege back on her planet. No one expected her to hold that ridge—hell, even I doubted she would. But she did. She held the line until we got there. Lost half her unit doing it.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “You never said much about that campaign.”

“Because she didn’t want anyone to,” Vos replied. “Told me once that her victories came at the price of becoming something she didn’t recognize in the mirror. Said peace didn’t clean blood from your hands, only buried it.”

Silence passed between them.

Then Obi-Wan spoke, quieter now. “Do you think the leak will change her?”

Vos exhaled, dragging a hand through his long hair. “No. But it’ll change how others see her. And she’ll see that. She’ll feel it. Same way we did after Geonosis, or Umbara, or… hell, pick a battlefield.”

“She’s not a Jedi, Quinlan. She doesn’t have the Code to fall back on.”

Vos shrugged. “That might be what saves her.”

Kenobi set his cup down. “And what exactly do you think I can do for her?”

“You’re already doing it,” Vos said, stretching. “You’re one of the only people left she still trusts. And the clones? They’re going to tear each other apart if someone doesn’t get them back in line.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You’re the one who stirred the pot, Quinlan.”

Vos stood and headed for the door with a grin. “Yeah. But you’re the one who has to keep it from boiling over.”

Kenobi watched him go, sighing softly before turning to the window. Below, Coruscant’s cityscape blinked like starlight trapped in durasteel. The senator’s voice echoed in his mind—measured, passionate, defiant.

A war hero. A survivor. And now, a symbol caught in the middle of something neither of them could fully control.

And Quinlan Vos, as always, had thrown kindling on an already smoldering fire.

⸻

The message blinked on her datapad:

[VOS]: Hey, sunshine. We need to talk. Open your door before I decide to climb something I probably shouldn’t.

She stared at it, lips pressed in a flat line. The datapad dimmed after a moment of her not responding.

“No,” she muttered to herself, tossing the device onto the couch as she stepped into her modest apartment’s kitchen. She wasn’t in the mood for Vos’ brand of chaos—not tonight. Not after the day she’d had.

She barely made it through pouring a glass of water before—

BANG BANG BANG!

Her eyes snapped to the glass doors leading out to the balcony.

Another loud knock. BANG!

Then came the muffled but unmistakable voice of Jedi Master Quinlan Vos.

“I know you saw my message! Don’t ignore me, Senator, I scaled four levels of durasteel infrastructure to get up here!”

She groaned, pressing her forehead to a cabinet door. “Force help me.”

She crossed the apartment with an air of reluctant resignation and unlocked the balcony door. Vos was standing there, slightly winded but grinning as if he’d just dropped by for tea.

“You’re lucky I didn’t stun you through the glass,” she said, stepping aside.

Vos strolled in like he owned the place. “You wouldn’t have. I’m far too charming.”

“You’re far too irritating.”

He smirked, shrugging off the slight. “That too.”

She folded her arms. “What do you want, Vos?”

He grew more serious at that, the mischief retreating just slightly from his expression. “I want to know how you’re holding up. And I figured you wouldn’t actually answer that unless I forced my way onto your balcony.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t deny it.

“Listen,” Vos said, voice lower now, “I know what it feels like when your past catches up. You think it’s going to rip away everything you’ve built. But it won’t. Not unless you let it.”

She turned away, facing the cityscape, arms still wrapped around herself. “You saw the looks in the rotunda. They’re not going to forget. They’re not supposed to.”

“They’re not supposed to forgive either,” Vos said quietly. “But some of them will. Especially the ones that matter.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then: “Did you say anything to Fox or Thorn?”

Vos leaned on the balcony rail beside her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Her gaze cut sideways toward him. “Vos.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not the only one who knows how to give a political answer.”

“I swear, if you meddled—”

“I didn’t tell them the whole truth. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Most of it’s still classified… even to me.”

“But you were there.”

“I was. And I saw you do what needed doing when no one else had the spine.”

She didn’t reply.

“I’m not here to dig,” Vos said, standing upright again. “Just to remind you that you didn’t survive that war to start hiding again now.”

She looked at him then, eyes hard but grateful.

“Fine,” she said at last. “You can stay for a drink. One.”

He grinned. “See? I am charming.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Fives has an important message for you!

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.11

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The sun streamed softly through the skylights of the café nestled high in the Coruscant Senate District, the sky hazy but warm. For once, the city didn’t feel like durasteel and duty—it felt like a reprieve.

She sat at the center of a wide, cushioned booth, coffee in hand, a real pastry on her plate, and a few senators she trusted across from her.

Padmé Amidala was all soft smiles and elegant composure, draped in airy lilac silks. Mon Mothma sipped quietly at her tea, nodding along to a story about a misfiled vote and a rogue Ithorian delegate. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the war, the complications, and the heartbreak waiting back at HQ.

“Honestly,” Padmé was saying, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Senator Ask Aak tries to propose another committee solely to investigate snack break durations.”

“And I will die on the floor before I vote yes on that,” the senator deadpanned.

Everyone laughed.

Near the corner of the table, GH-9 sat stiffly in a borrowed chair, arms crossed.

Across from him stood C-3PO, who had been in a monologue about Senate etiquette protocols for the past eight minutes. “And as I was saying, I once witnessed a Rodian ambassador eat a napkin, and I said to him—politely of course—that—”

“I will self-destruct if he keeps talking,” GH-9 whispered across the table.

R7 chirped in agreement, not helping.

Padmé turned just in time to see GH-9 lean slowly to the left in his chair. Inch by inch. Clearly trying to slide behind the potted plant beside them.

“Is he—?” she began.

“Yes,” the senator said, watching her droid with utter betrayal. “GH-9, you’re not stealth-programmed. You sound like a toolbox falling down stairs.”

“I’m preservation-programmed,” he said flatly, halfway concealed behind a fern. “Preserving my sanity.”

C-3PO peered after him, clearly unaware. “Oh dear, did I say something to offend your companion?”

“You haven’t not offended him,” the senator muttered, sipping her caf with a grimace. “GH, back in your chair before I reassign you to Senator Orn Free Taa.”

GH-9 hissed audibly and reappeared.

The others laughed again, and it felt real. It wasn’t forced diplomacy or battlefield gallows humor—it was easy.

She leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently brushing over the edge of her cup, eyes softening.

This was the first bit of normality she’d tasted in… Force, she didn’t know how long. No bombs, no war, no heartbreak waiting just behind a hallway corner.

Just brunch. And friends. And her ridiculous, problematic, fiercely loyal droids.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Padmé and Mon.

Padmé smiled. “You deserve it. Whatever’s waiting after this—take this moment. Let it be real.”

She nodded, and for once, she let herself believe it.

The Senate Gardens were quiet that afternoon, a rare lull between committee meetings and security alerts. A breeze wound through the paths lined with silver-leafed trees and flowerbeds shaped like old planetary seals, bringing with it the scent of something vaguely floral and aggressively fertilized.

The senator strolled slowly, arms behind her back, letting the peace settle on her shoulders like a shawl. GH-9 followed dutifully a step behind, ever the loyal—if snide—shadow. R7 zipped ahead, occasionally stopping to examine flowers or scan the base of a tree for reasons known only to himself.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at her protocol droid, “I take back every time I said you talked too much.”

GH-9 tilted his metal head. “Growth. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just…” she sighed, then cracked a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re not like Padmé’s droid.”

“C-3PO.” GH-9 shuddered audibly. “His vocabulary is a weapon. And I say that as someone fluent in Huttese and forty-seven forms of insult.”

Behind them, R7 gave a sharp beep-beep-whoop, then a low, almost conspiratorial bwreeeet.

GH-9 translated immediately. “He says he considered pushing Threepio off the balcony. Twice.”

The senator stopped walking. “R7. You didn’t.”

R7 spun his dome proudly and beeped again.

“He would’ve landed in the ornamental koi pond,” GH added. “Not fatal. Possibly therapeutic.”

She snorted and shook her head, then leaned down and patted the astromech on the dome. “You’re going to get us barred from every brunch if you keep this up.”

R7 chirped in what could only be described as gleeful defiance.

They walked on, shoes soft against the stone path. GH-9 silently adjusted his internal temperature, scanning the area with a casual eye, always alert even on a leisurely stroll. R7 nudged a flowerpot for no apparent reason and then spun away before anyone could catch him.

The senator paused under a willow-fronded archway, taking in the stillness of the city from this rare, green perch.

“Just for today,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Let the galaxy run without me.”

Her droids flanked her quietly, one too sarcastic to say it aloud, the other too chaotic to sit still, but in their own strange way—they understood.

And for now, that was enough.

The quiet didn’t last.

The senator turned at the sound of approaching voices—one smooth and long-suffering, the other excited and young.

“—I’m just saying, Master, if Anakin can sneak out of his diplomatic duties, then maybe you should let me—”

“Padawan,” Kenobi’s voice was firm but amused, “if I must endure these soul-draining conversations, then so must you. Consider it training in patience.”

R7 gave a warning beep as the pair came into view, and GH-9 let out a long sigh that sounded entirely put-upon.

“Oh no,” GH muttered.

The senator smirked as Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stepped through the garden archway. Obi-Wan wore the tired expression of a man responsible for someone else’s teenager, while Ahsoka looked far too happy to be anywhere not involving politics.

“Senator,” Obi-Wan greeted her with a shallow bow, tone clipped but polite. “Apologies for the intrusion. Someone insisted on a detour through the gardens.”

“I said I heard R7 whirring and figured you were nearby,” Ahsoka said with a sheepish smile, stepping forward. “And I was right. He’s hard to miss.”

R7 let out a smug breep-breep.

“Of course he is,” GH-9 muttered. “He’s a four-wheeled menace with an ego the size of Kessel.”

The senator gave Ahsoka a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. Still tormenting your masters, I hope?”

Ahsoka grinned. “Always.”

“And Anakin?”

“Gone,” Obi-Wan said flatly. “I’m certain he’s off flying something he wasn’t cleared to take.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

GH-9 gave an ahem. “Is it too late to apply for reassignment to the Jedi Temple? I feel I would fit in with the sarcasm and poorly timed emotional breakdowns.”

“Tempting,” Obi-Wan replied dryly. “But we’re quite full.”

The senator laughed softly. For all their chaos, this was the first time in a long while she’d felt truly…herself. Among friends. Just for a moment.

Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the droids, then elbowed Obi-Wan. “You see what happens when people actually like their astromechs?”

“I’m not convinced liking R7 is safe,” Obi-Wan replied.

“I’m right here,” the senator said.

“You nicknamed your astromech after a murder droid prototype,” Kenobi said pointedly.

“And?”

R7 beeped proudly.

They all walked together down the garden path, the sun cutting through the trees, the war momentarily at bay. Just a Jedi, a padawan, a senator, and two terrible droids sharing a rare pocket of peace.

⸻

The Senate rotunda was unusually quiet for mid-morning, the marble floors reflecting the soft golden light from the skylights overhead. Most of the Senators had retreated to their offices or were buried in committees, leaving the hallways hushed and peaceful.

She walked in silence, heels clicking softly, R7 trundling beside her with a low, rhythmic whirr.

It was rare to be alone without GH-9’s snide commentary, and even rarer to move through the Senate without being glared at, whispered about, or stopped by someone fishing for gossip about her war record. But for now, just for a little while, there was quiet.

Until she rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into Commander Fox.

He stopped short. So did she.

Her breath caught slightly in her throat—not just from the surprise, but from the look in his eyes. There was something unreadable behind the stoicism, something softer than usual. They stood there, face to face in the empty corridor.

“Senator,” he greeted, voice low and slightly rough.

“Commander.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

R7 beeped once in greeting. Fox gave the droid a slow nod, eyes never really leaving her.

“How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing briefly at the faded bruise near her elbow—one he shouldn’t have even noticed.

“Healing. You notice things like that?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he said simply.

Their silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension between them wasn’t sharp—it was something else. Quieter. Close.

Fox shifted slightly. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again… alone.”

She tilted her head. “About?”

His eyes searched hers. “About a few things. But none I can say properly here.”

A breathless pause lingered between them. Her lips parted to respond—just as a sharp bzzzzt and a startled, panicked wheeze echoed down the hall.

Fox’s head whipped toward the noise.

“What—?”

They both turned in time to see Senator Orn Free Taa stumble out of a side chamber, smoke curling from his heavy robes and one eye twitching violently.

Behind him, R7 retracted a small taser arm, beeping in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction.

“You… you monster!” Orn Free Taa wailed. “That droid attacked me!”

“R7!” she gasped, both horrified and not remotely surprised. “What did you do?”

R7 gave a low, smug trill, followed by a short sequence of beeps that translated loosely to: He touched me. Twice. I warned him.

Fox blinked slowly, then turned to her. “Is this a normal day for you?”

“Less normal than you’d think, more than I’d like.”

Orn Free Taa continued to sputter. “I will have that thing decommissioned!”

R7 flashed red for just a second.

Fox stepped forward smoothly, posture stiff with authority. “Senator Free Taa, if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I suggest doing so through the appropriate channels. In the meantime, perhaps don’t antagonize sensitive hardware.”

Orn huffed and stormed off, muttering about assassins and droid uprisings.

Fox glanced back at her, then at R7. “He’s got personality.”

“He’s got issues.”

Fox gave the faintest, fleeting smile. “He fits in well with the rest of your entourage, then.”

She didn’t argue.

He lingered a moment longer, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“When you’re ready… come find me.”

And just like that, he walked away, leaving her with the scent of durasteel and something human.

R7 beeped once. She looked down.

“No,” she muttered, “you don’t get praise for tasing Taa.”

R7 whirred indignantly.

“…But thanks.”

⸻

The moment the senator stepped through the doors of her apartment, the tension began to slip from her shoulders.

Coruscant’s towering skyline glowed outside her windows, the buzz of speeders distant, like bees in a jar. Inside, however, her apartment was a rare sanctuary of quiet. The lights had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, and something actually smelled good.

“GH,” she called, slipping off her shoes. “Did you get the groceries I asked for?”

The protocol droid stepped into view with his usual self-important flourish, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

“Indeed, Senator. Organic produce only. Locally sourced. And I took the liberty of preparing a traditional dish from your homeworld. You’re welcome.”

She blinked. “You cooked?”

“Someone has to ensure you don’t wither away on cheap caf and political backstabbing. Now sit. Eat. Hydrate.”

“Did you poison it?”

“Only with love and an appropriate sodium content.”

She smirked and dropped onto the couch, letting her head fall back. R7 beeped in from his corner near the charging station, where he was currently judging the wine selection GH-9 had apparently pulled out.

Dinner was good—suspiciously good, considering GH’s history of being more bark than bite when it came to domestic duties. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to sit, eat warm food, and not worry about her planet’s future or which clone might punch another one next.

That is, until GH-9 spoke again.

“By the way, Master Vos has been standing on your balcony for the past hour.”

She nearly choked on her wine. “What?”

“I refused to let him in. He tried to sweet-talk me, claimed he had urgent Jedi business, but I could sense it was likely just gossip. Or feelings. Or both.”

“GH,” she groaned, standing.

“I told him you were not available for nonsense. He insisted on waiting anyway. Shall I continue denying him entry?”

She padded toward the balcony doors, glass catching the light. Sure enough, Quinlan Vos was outside—hood up, arms folded, leaning against the railing like a kicked puppy pretending to be a sulky teenager.

He knocked once, with exaggerated slowness.

She stared at him through the glass. R7 wheeled up behind her, beeped once, and extended his taser arm with far too much enthusiasm.

“No,” she sighed. “We’re not tasing Vos.”

R7 beeped again, very pointedly.

“Not tonight.”

She cracked the door open just enough to glare at the man leaning far too comfortably on her private balcony. “You know normal people knock on doors.”

“I did,” Vos said, gesturing to GH through the glass. “He hissed at me and threw a ladle.”

“I did not hiss,” GH called from the kitchen. “I was firm, composed, and wielding kitchenware appropriately.”

She opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

Vos smiled sheepishly. “Just wanted to see how your day went. I heard through various channels there may have been… tasering?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming in.”

“I won’t touch anything. I swear.”

“GH,” she called, already regretting this, “make up the couch.”

“I will not,” GH sniffed, “but I will sanitize it after.”

Vos grinned wide as he stepped inside, boots clunking softly. “I knew you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

R7 beeped softly from beside her, his taser still not fully retracted.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” she muttered, walking back toward her half-eaten dinner. “But if you breathe too loud, I’m letting R7 handle it.”

R7 chirped in bloodthirsty agreement.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Lyco woke up and chose violence

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The walk back from the senator’s apartment was quiet.

Fox didn’t speak, and Thorn didn’t expect him to. Not at first.

But the silence felt different now—less like calm, more like something that wanted to crack open.

They turned a corner, stepping into the shadow of the senate tower, boots echoing in near-perfect unison.

“She’s sharp,” Thorn said finally.

Fox’s gaze remained forward. “She’s reckless.”

“Reckless, or brave?”

“Doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t provoke like that.”

Thorn huffed. “What, her teasing you?”

Fox stopped walking. Just for a moment.

“She pushes boundaries.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

A pause. Long enough for a speeder to pass by overhead.

Fox turned his head just slightly, just enough to meet Thorn’s eyes.

“I’m not here to indulge senators.”

“No,” Thorn said, quieter now. “You’re here to protect them.”

They walked again.

This time, Thorn’s voice was more level. More careful.

“She’s not like the others.”

Fox said nothing.

“She sees things,” Thorn continued. “Knows when someone’s watching her. Picks up on shifts, silences. She noticed how you walked closer today.”

“I did my job.”

“You changed how you did your job.”

Fox stopped again. Thorn didn’t.

The air between them was a taut wire now, humming beneath the words neither of them would say.

“She’s a risk,” Fox said.

Thorn finally turned. “Or a reason.”

“A reason for what?”

But Thorn didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They both knew.

Neither man would speak it. Not here. Not now.

But between the edges of their words—beneath the armor, the protocol, the rank—was something alive.

And she was the flame drawing both of them in.

The corridors of the Coruscant Guard base felt colder than usual as Fox and Thorn walked back toward their quarters. The sounds of their footsteps—staccato and measured—echoed around them, a rhythmic reminder of their role, their duty.

And yet, something felt different tonight. Thorn could sense it in the air between them. Fox hadn’t said a word since their conversation on the walk back, and Thorn wasn’t about to press him.

They were just about to turn down the hall leading to their rooms when a trio of figures stepped into view.

Hound, Stone, and Thire.

The trio stood in the shadows of the hallway, their faces hidden beneath their helmets but the casual stance of their posture unmistakable. They were lounging in a way that only soldiers who’d seen too much could manage—relaxed, but always alert.

Hound was the first to speak, his voice muffled but clear through his helmet’s com. “Marshal Commander, Commander Thorn.” He nodded, acknowledging them both. “We were just finishing a sweep of the upper levels.”

Stone smirked, tilting his helmet toward Fox. “So, how’s the senator doing? Keeping you busy?”

Fox narrowed his eyes slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “What’s your point, Stone?”

Stone chuckled under his breath, the amusement evident even through the tone of his voice. “Just saying, it’d be nice if we had the honor of watching over someone a little more… attractive than Orn Free Taa. You know, someone who’s actually worth our time.”

Thorn’s body stiffened, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Fox’s stance didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t give an inch.

But the subtle tension in his jaw was enough to send a ripple of warning through Thorn’s gut. He could feel the charge in the air. He could see Fox’s mind working behind his helmet, weighing his next move.

Thorn opened his mouth to respond, but Fox was faster.

“Get back to your positions,” Fox’s voice was cold, commanding, and unequivocal. “All of you. Now.”

Hound’s helmet tilted slightly, as though he was considering Fox’s words. There was no malice in the moment, but the tone was unmistakable—Fox wasn’t just commanding his subordinates, he was asserting something more.

“Yes, sir,” Hound replied, stepping back and motioning for the others to follow.

Thire, however, raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to bite our heads off, Fox. We were just messing with you.”

Fox’s gaze locked onto Thire. It wasn’t threatening, but it was firm. Unyielding.

“I don’t care what you think about her. She’s not your concern,” Fox said, his voice clipped.

Thorn watched the exchange with growing awareness. He didn’t need to hear more to understand what was beneath the surface. Something was brewing between Fox and the senator. Something Fox didn’t want his men—his brothers—to poke at.

Stone shrugged, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, just making sure you weren’t too distracted, Fox.”

Fox didn’t say another word.

With a final, brief glance at Thorn, he turned on his heel and walked toward the quarters, Thorn following a step behind.

Once they were out of earshot, Thorn allowed himself to breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, raced to piece everything together.

Fox had always been professional, but that reaction—defensive, terse—hadn’t been just about the senator’s safety. There was something else there.

And Thorn wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for it—or jealous of it.

⸻

The air in the briefing chamber was stagnant with politics, but you barely noticed. You’d grown used to breathing it in.

Your eyes, however, had their own agenda.

Fox and Thorn stood across the room—one against the wall like he’d been carved from it, the other with his arms behind his back and a half-step forward, like he was ready to speak but never would unless asked. Both unreadable. Both unnervingly focused.

And both watching you.

Well—not watching. But you knew better than to believe that.

Senator Mon Mothma sat beside you, her voice soft as she leaned in. “You have their full attention, you know.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

She gave a faint, knowing smile. “Don’t play coy. Half the room’s worried about this assassin on the loose. The other half’s watching how the Coruscant Guard looks at you.”

You gave a half-laugh under your breath. “They’re soldiers. They look like that at everyone.”

“No,” Mon Mothma said gently. “They don’t.”

You glanced up again—Thorn now in quiet conversation with Riyo Chuchi, Fox standing near the entrance with his arms crossed.

Both still facing you.

You cleared your throat. When the briefing was dismissed, senators filtered out in twos and threes, murmuring lowly. You didn’t stand right away. You were thinking. Weighing a dangerous idea.

And then you stood—stepping toward Thorn before Fox.

Thorn looked at you with the faintest raise of his brow. Not surprised. Not expectant either. Just… ready.

“Commander,” you said with a smile. “Do you think we’re being overly paranoid, or is this new threat credible?”

Thorn paused for just a moment too long before answering. “It’s credible enough to keep me awake at night.”

Your lips curled. “That’s oddly poetic.”

“I can be full of surprises,” he said, offering a dry, almost-smile.

Behind you, you heard the soft shift of armor—Fox drawing closer, unprompted.

Interesting.

“Do you think I need a tighter guard detail?” you asked, turning your attention to Fox now, letting your gaze linger a little too long.

Fox looked down at you. His expression was unmoved, but you noticed—he stood closer than usual again.

“You’ll have what’s necessary,” he replied evenly.

“Not the answer I asked for,” you said softly.

“It’s the one that matters.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking between the two commanders. “Well, if either of you feels like getting some air later, I’m thinking of walking the gardens.”

A beat passed.

Neither took the bait. But something shifted in both of them.

Not a word. Not a twitch.

But the silence held more than anyone else could hear.

You smiled, just a little.

“Gentlemen.”

Then you turned and left—heels clicking, chin high, spine tall.

And behind you, two commanders stood side by side.

Saying nothing.

Feeling everything.

⸻

The gardens behind the Senate building were meant for tranquility—tall hedges, polished stone walkways, subtle lighting filtered through glassy foliage. It smelled of rainwater and something faintly floral, like a memory from somewhere else.

You weren’t sure you expected anyone to actually take your invitation.

You definitely didn’t expect both of them.

Thorn arrived first, boots quiet against the stone, his presence announced only by the change in the air—he always carried some heat with him, something sharp under control.

“You walk alone often?” he asked, keeping pace beside you without being asked to.

“I like fresh air after long hours of stale conversation,” you replied.

“I can understand that.”

You were about to say more when another sound joined your footsteps.

Fox.

He didn’t speak, just joined on your other side, walking as though he’d always been there.

You blinked, looking between them. “Well. Either I’m under heavy surveillance or someone took my suggestion seriously.”

Thorn offered a soft huff of breath. “I like gardens.”

Fox didn’t answer.

You let the silence stretch. Let them settle.

You stopped near a low wall that overlooked the glimmering speeder lanes far below, resting your hands on the cool stone. Neither man flanked you now—both standing a polite distance back, quiet sentinels in crimson armor.

It was ridiculous, how safe they made you feel. And how annoying that safety had a heartbeat.

“I suppose I should feel flattered,” you said lightly. “Two commanders taking time from their endless duties to walk among flowers with a senator who doesn’t even like politics.”

Fox’s voice was low. “I’m assigned to your protection.”

“I’m not.” Thorn looked at you. “I came because I wanted to.”

You glanced sideways at him, then at Fox—whose jaw had tensed the slightest bit.

Interesting.

You turned to face them fully now, hands behind your back like any good statesperson. But your words were not diplomatic.

“You know,” you mused, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think both of you were trying very hard not to look like you wanted to be here.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not about want. It’s about necessity.”

“You always so careful with your words, Commander?”

“I have to be.”

Thorn stepped a fraction closer. “Some of us know how to loosen the screws once in a while.”

You smiled. Not smug—just amused. Alive. Thrilled by what danced beneath their armored restraint.

“I’ll leave you both to your necessary screws and careful words,” you said, taking a few steps back toward the Senate tower. “But thank you—for indulging a restless senator tonight.”

And then you left them there. Both men. Still, silent, unmoving beneath the warm garden lights.

Unspoken things tightening around their throats.

And neither of them ready to say a word about it.

Not yet.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Cold Wind”

Commander Cody x Jedi!Reader

Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era

⸻

They called her a terrorist now.

Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.

But those days were ash.

The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.

But not you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.

You fought.

A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.

Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.

You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.

They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:

HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.

And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.

“Life likes to blow the cold wind…

Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”

⸻

The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.

Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.

Because he was there.

Commander Cody.

You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.

It hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.

He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.

And just like that, time rewound.

Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”

His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”

But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.

Now?

He raised his blaster rifle.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t shoot.

The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.

“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.

You took one slow step forward.

“Cody,” you said, voice low.

His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.

“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”

He said nothing.

For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.

Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.

He didn’t even look back.

⸻

Weeks passed.

You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.

But still… something gnawed at you.

The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.

You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.

Just in case.

And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…

“—Commander Cody. AWOL.

Deserted post.

Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.

Do not engage without support.

Consider highly dangerous.”

You stopped breathing.

He left.

He left.

Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.

But you knew you had to.

⸻

You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.

The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.

He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

You stepped into the firelight without a word.

His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.

“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.

You swallowed. “You left.”

“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”

Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”

You moved toward him, every step heavy.

“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.

He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.

“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”

He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”

You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.

“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.

Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”

You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”

He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”

And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.

Hi! I saw you took requests and I was wondering if you could do a Command Squad x Fem!Reader where she’s a general but not because she’s a Jedi but because she actually served in wars before this and they want her respect and flirt with her. And of course any of your flourishes ;)

You’re the best! Xx

“Steel & Stardust”

Fem!Reader x Command Squad (Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Neyo, Bacara, Gree, Bly, and Ponds)

⸻

You weren’t a Jedi. Never wore the robes, never had the Force. You didn’t need it.

Your command had been earned the hard way—blood, shrapnel, and scars in wars no one even bothered to archive anymore. When the Republic came knocking, you told them you didn’t serve causes—you served soldiers. And somehow, that landed you here.

Not in front of them. With them.

The elite. The best the Republic had to offer.

And from the second you stepped into that war room, every helmet turned your way. And when the helmets came off—yeah, that was a problem. Because they were all infuriatingly hot, and even worse, they knew it.

Cody was the first to speak, his voice calm, neutral, but his eyes sharp. “General. You’ll forgive the question, but… what exactly are your qualifications?”

You just smirked, tossing your old service jacket onto the table with a dull thud. “Two border wars, five urban insurgencies, and a ten-year campaign in the Outer Rim before the Jedi decided the galaxy needed saving. That enough for you, Commander?”

Wolffe snorted, amused. “She’s got more battlefield time than half the Jedi Council.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bacara grunted, arms crossed, voice gravelly. “Seen her file. Most of us got bred for war. She just never left it.”

“I like her,” Bly grinned, leaning on the table with a little too much casual charm. “Can we keep her?”

“Not like that, Bly,” Fox muttered, though he didn’t exactly disagree.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bly said with a wicked grin. “Yet.”

You sighed. “Are you always like this, or is it just when there’s a woman in the room who outranks you?”

Gree chuckled. “You outrank us technically. Not in spirit.”

Neyo hadn’t said a word yet, just stared at you like he was dissecting your tactical potential, or possibly imagining your funeral. Could go either way with Neyo.

Ponds gave you a respectful nod. “We’ve worked under a lot of Jedi. Not all of them know what they’re doing. We’d follow you, General.”

And that—that was what mattered.

⸻

You caught them watching you more often than not. In the field, in the war room, during briefings. It wasn’t just the usual soldier-to-general dynamic. No, it was different. Heat in Cody’s gaze when you gave orders. That glint in Wolffe’s eye when you called him out in front of the others. The way Fox lingered just a bit too long when you handed him back his datapad.

Even Neyo—cold, calculating Neyo—started standing just a little too close.

“You know they’re all trying to impress you, right?” Gree asked one night while you were cleaning your gear, his voice low and amused.

You didn’t even glance up. “Trying and failing.”

Bly leaned against your doorway. “Is that a challenge?”

⸻

After you saved their shebs in a firefight—ripping a blaster from a fallen commando and dropping six droids in twelve seconds flat—you were pretty sure something shifted.

They wanted your respect. You already had theirs.

But they wanted more.

So they fought beside you. Ate with you. Got protective in the field. Made excuses to talk to you after hours. Fought over who got assigned to your team. And every now and then… they flirted like it was a competitive sport.

Cody did subtle praise and brooding glances. Always has your back.

Wolffe. The grumpy softie. Pretends he hates you. Would kill anyone who hurt you.

Fox was stoic, but flirty in a dry, sardonic way. Deep down, he’s soft, but you’d have to earn it.

Neyo protective in a weird way. Doesn’t speak much but always notices when you’re off. Secretly touched you remembered his name.

Bacara extremely blunt, intense. A man of few words—but his loyalty is loud.

Gree slightly flirty and professional. Gives you space but always drops a line like, “You ever need a break, General… I know a place.”

Bly was shameless. Teases you endlessly but respects you deeply. Would absolutely fight anyone who disrespects you.

Ponds was quiet support. Loyal. Observes everything. The first one to ask how you’re doing when no one else notices.

And you?

You don’t fall easily. You’ve seen too much.

But if you were going to fall—

It might just be for one of them.

Or all of them.

⸻

79’s was already loud when you walked in. Music thrumming through your bones, the low hum of clone banter and laughter rising and falling like waves. You hadn’t planned to come here. You’d just wanted one damn drink. One moment not steeped in war, planning, or death.

You ran right into Commander Bly. Well, more like his chest.

“General,” he said, and the smile that bloomed on his face was entirely too pretty. He looked you over, gaze lingering just a little too long. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t,” you replied, stepping back. “Just needed to breathe.”

“You came to a GAR bar to breathe?” Gree chimed in from behind him, drink in hand and eyebrows raised. “You’re worse at relaxing than Fox.”

Speak of the devil—Fox was at the bar, sharp suit shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He lifted his glass in greeting and turned away to order another round. You could feel his eyes on you though, like a sniper sight you couldn’t shake.

“You here alone?” Bly asked, leaning against the wall like he knew what he was doing.

“I was,” you replied flatly.

“Tragic,” Gree said, stepping closer, voice smoother than it had any right to be. “This place is full of trouble tonight.”

“Is that what you are, Gree? Trouble?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Cody, Wolffe, Bacara, Ponds, and Neyo filtered in from the second level, coming down the steps like they were part of a slow-motion holodrama.

Cody looked you over once, eyes flickering to the drink in your hand. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” you replied, teasing, heat behind the words.

Wolffe smirked. “Too bad.”

Ponds gave a low whistle. “She’s gonna kill one of you tonight.”

“I volunteer,” Bly said without hesitation.

Bacara rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink, staring at you over the rim of the glass like he was thinking something entirely inappropriate—and probably correct.

And Neyo—stone-cold, unreadable—just nodded. “You clean up well, General.”

That made a few of them pause. Compliments from Neyo were about as rare as a Tatooine blizzard.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of how your shirt clung to your skin, how the lights in the bar made everything seem lower, warmer, closer.

Fox appeared beside you without a sound, holding out a drink. “On me.”

You hesitated. “You trying to get me drunk, Commander?”

“If I were, I’d start with something stronger,” he said, voice low, his knuckles brushing yours as you took it.

“Careful,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You might be starting something you can’t finish.”

“I always finish what I start,” Fox replied smoothly, dead serious.

The tension snapped tight like a tripwire.

Cody moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your neck. “You should be careful with us, General.”

Wolffe stepped in next to him, eyes gleaming. “Or don’t. We like dangerous.”

Gree leaned in from the other side. “And we play well together.”

“You all are shameless,” you muttered, taking a sip just to hide your smirk.

“No,” Ponds said with a shrug. “Just very, very interested.”

You looked around—at eight sets of eyes, different in every way except one thing: they wanted you. Wanted to impress you, challenge you, make you forget—if only for one night—that the galaxy was falling apart outside these walls.

You downed the rest of your drink and smiled, slow and dangerous. “Alright, boys. Try and keep up.”

The night was just beginning.

The music had shifted. Slowed. Lower bass, seductive rhythm. Clone troopers were still everywhere, but the spotlight wasn’t on them anymore.

It was on you.

You hadn’t planned to be the center of the room, but when you started moving through the crowd—hips swaying just enough, eyes catching every glance—you had their undivided attention. Especially when Commander Bly snuck up behind you and took your hand.

“Dance with me,” he said, already guiding you onto the floor like he’d waited years for the excuse.

You let him.

Bly danced like he fought—confident, smooth, close. One hand gripped your hip, the other held yours. His gold armor was traded for casual blacks, but the heat rolling off him was all battle-born adrenaline and want.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmured in his ear, “and I’ll start thinking you’re falling for me.”

He faltered—actually faltered. Blinked once, then twice.

You leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “What’s the matter, Bly? Didn’t think I could flirt back?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You slipped away with a smirk.

Gree was next—casual, clever, always too smooth for his own good.

“Careful,” you said, nursing a drink beside him at the bar. “You look like you’re planning something.”

“Just wondering how someone like you keeps every commander in the GAR wrapped around your finger.”

You leaned in, gaze dark. “Who says I don’t already have you wrapped around mine?”

He choked on his drink.

You patted his back, sweet as sin. “I’ll be gentle.”

⸻

Fox looked like he was ready for a war crime when you sat beside him.

“I thought you hated attention,” you said, sipping from your glass.

“I do.”

“And yet,” you murmured, brushing your knee against his, “you keep watching me like I’m a damn threat.”

Fox’s eyes flickered. His jaw clenched. “You are.”

You leaned close. “Then do something about it.”

He looked away. Tight. Tense.

Flustered.

⸻

Neyo didn’t flinch when you approached—but his grip on his glass tightened when you laid your hand lightly on his chest.

“You don’t say much,” you whispered, “but I bet you think about me more than you should.”

His eyes were locked on yours. Still silent.

“You going to prove me wrong?”

He looked down, just for a second. Then turned and walked away—only to stop, just out of reach, and glance back like he wanted you to follow.

God, he was dangerous.

Ponds approached and gave you a smile like calm water hiding a riptide.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“I am now.”

You rested a hand on his arm, feeling the strength there. “You ever going to stop being the sweet one?”

His smile dipped just slightly, darker now. “Only if you ask nicely.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “What if I beg?”

He stared at you like you’d kicked him in the chest.

Bacara barely moved when you brushed his hand at the table, except for the twitch in his jaw.

“You don’t talk much either.”

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

You tilted your head. “Then say something. Right now.”

Bacara met your gaze for a long, charged moment. Then—

“You’re dangerous.”

You smirked. “Took you that long to figure it out?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly needing a long drink.

⸻

Wolffe was already grumpy when you got to him, sitting in the corner like he’d rather be anywhere else—but the second you sat on the arm of his chair, his whole body went rigid.

“What?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, playing with the edge of his collar. “You just always look like you want to throw me against a wall.”

He inhaled sharply. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh, I am.”

And just for fun, you kissed his cheek. Quick. Sharp. Possessive.

Wolffe went absolutely still. “You’re a menace.”

“You like that.”

⸻

Cody found you at the end of the night—when your guard was just a little lowered, your drink half-finished.

“You were playing us all along,” he said, leaning on the bar beside you, eyes burning.

“Not playing,” you replied. “Just reminding you who’s in charge.”

He chuckled, low and slow. “Then dance with me.”

You didn’t resist when he pulled you back onto the floor, slower this time. Closer.

“You like control,” he murmured in your ear.

You turned in his arms, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Only when they’re strong enough to take it from me.”

Cody stared at you like he wanted to drag you out of the bar and ruin you.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d let him.

You hadn’t meant to start a war in 79’s—but then again, you’d never played fair, had you?

The music was sultry, all slow bass and sin. The lights were low. You’d been dancing with Cody for all of three minutes, and you could already feel the eyes on you. His eyes.

Fox had been brooding at the bar, nursing his whiskey, watching you like a hawk all night. You’d shared a moment earlier, sure—a drink, a brush of skin, words that lingered.

But now you were wrapped up in Cody.

Hands at your waist, lips near your ear, warm breath as he murmured, “You’re playing a dangerous game, General.”

You looked up at him, smug. “Only if someone plays back.”

Cody smirked. “Oh, I’m playing.”

He pulled you in tighter, hand trailing down your spine, and that was it—that was the trigger.

You didn’t see Fox at first—you felt him.

Storming across the floor like a man possessed. Controlled, measured fury wrapped in sleek civilian clothes. A few troopers nearby saw him coming and stepped aside like instinct told them don’t be in his way.

You barely had time to blink before—

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a blaster shot.

Cody’s hand stiffened at your hip. You turned slowly—heart pounding—to find Fox right in front of you.

Eyes dark. Jaw clenched. Dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Cody asked, tone calm but wary.

Fox didn’t look at him. Not once. His eyes were on you. “This what you came for?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “To play us against each other like it’s all some kind of game?”

You tilted your head, meeting his fury with wicked calm. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Commander.”

His hand shot out—not rough, not cruel—but demanding. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you a step closer. “I’m not jealous.”

“No?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

“I’m done pretending you’re just another officer.” His voice dipped, raw and sharp. “I see you dancing with him like that and I want to put my fist through the wall.”

A slow hush had fallen across the floor.

You stepped into Fox’s space, bodies nearly touching. “So do something about it.”

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Then—

His hand slid to your waist. Possessive. Hot. “Dance with me,” he ordered. Not asked. Ordered.

You could have said no.

But you didn’t.

You let him lead you back to the center of the floor, every trooper watching now, every step like a declaration. Fox danced like he wanted to erase Cody’s hands from your skin. He kept you close. Too close. The kind of close that whispered mine without ever saying a word.

“Next time,” he growled in your ear, “I won’t be so polite.”

You smirked against his neck. “That was polite?”

He held you tighter. “You haven’t seen me lose control yet.”

And part of you—twisted, wild, aching—wanted him to.

⸻

A/N

No idea where I was going with this tbh, think I went down my own little route and it ended up liked this 🫤

rip anakin skywalker you would have hated dune